


Gentle Sin

by bortlescale



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, Blood, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bortlescale/pseuds/bortlescale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is barely coping.  Castiel comes to soothe him.  Really emotional and blasphemous sex ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gentle Sin

Memories scrape him raw.  Carve out his core one serrated scoop at a time. And yet, he is too full. Distended with guilt and sorrow and anger and regret like the noxious fumes in a decaying corpse. Begging to disperse, to deflate, to explode.  Anything to get away from that thrashing sea of remembrance.  Anything to finally drown.

Dean sits on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, waiting for a reprieve that will never come.  Succumbing to a reckoning that will never be complete.

He finally breathes out one word, one prayer, with the last spark of his hope.  “Cas.”

A flutter of wings and he’s on his knees, a supplicant to a once deranged god.  “Make them go away.”  He grabs a pant leg at the knee, tugging like a child for attention.

A hand descends to cradle the side of his face as it leans against a strong, warm thigh.  Each tear a conquest that falls, saline down his face.  His head hangs silently.

Careful hands unbutton his shirt.  Tender fingers breathe up his torso pulling his undershirt off. His bare skin prickles and he can feel every grain of dirt and smear of dust as he is layed down on the cold, earthy floor.

And still the tears track down the creases of his eyes that show no more smiles.  Still closed against a visage he will not allow himself to see.  The buttons on his pants open with reverberations and he is laid bare on soil he has tracked in from the places of his destruction.

Slow, simple kisses sink into him from the tops of his feet, the insides of his ankles.  They journey up his shins and to the outsides of his thighs. He stirs as they trail along the tops of his hips.  With each blessing his nerves regain life.  He feels, he feels where those lips breathe warmly over his ribs. Knows the path over his shoulders and down his arms.  Each wrist a plea, each finger an answer, each palm a sacrifice.

The wishful noose about his neck is scattered by wet sigils. His chin, his nose, each cheek, each corner of his eyes, each ear receive silent whispers, anchors to his senses. Finally, his forehead is touched by those truthful lips.

A benediction upon his body flushes through his limbs. Feels of living.

 

An arm under his legs and a hand cradling his head and he is laid on the bed.  A body, smooth and merciful, glides on top of his and envelops them both in the warmth and reprieve under the blanket.  Softly he is rolled to the side and those strong hands pull him near so that a voice born of thunder can pray in his ear.

“O my love,” Castiel starts, without waver or force, “according to the multitude of your tender mercies, have you blotted out my transgressions.”  Dean’s breath becomes rapid, but those hands keep their firm, sure hold. “Washed me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleansed me from my sin.”

Castiel continues battering Dean’s ear with gentle force “I acknowledge your transgressions and your sin is ever before me.” Dean clutches back and buries his face in Castiel’s neck and yet he does not want to escape these brutally soft words.  “You delivered me from bloodguiltiness, O my love, you human of my salvation. And my tongue will sing aloud of your righteousness.”

Dean’s nails scrabble at Castiel’s back, drawing holy blood.  Castiel takes his hands, voice washing over red fingers, “O my love, you open my lips,” and those blessed lips suck clean each drop of blood as the body he holds is wracked by hitches and sobs that seek release, “and my mouth will give forth your praise.”

Mixing their limbs, Castiel holds him until the shuddering subsides and in the darkness continues, “For you desired not sacrifice from me, else would I have given it; you did not delight in burnt offering.”

Drawing back Castiel looks into those raw, open eyes, “the sacrifices of good are a broken spirit, a broken and contrite heart, O my love, and I will not despise.”

Dean holds Castiel’s gaze, searching, bartering, begging those depths for deception but they hold only glory.

“Amen, Dean.”  A benediction upon his mind sweeps his thoughts.  Speaks of realizing.

 

He has no capacity for the sharp conciseness of words. Dean merely basks in the glory next to him, entranced and shaking.  Castiel captures his lips softly, caressing each corner, each curve with his own.  Dean is devoured, consumed by a single pair of lips that gather his pieces and brings them to him. He responds with devout desperation.

Dean brings a hand up to Castiel’s face and his mouth becomes property of Castiel’s tongue.  Swiping every jagged edge.

Castiel’s sinuous leg wraps around Dean’s hip as they lay facing each other, an open and close.  He delicately runs his fingers down Dean’s torso and takes reverent hold.  Strokes and twists and guides him to his already slick and open entrance.

Castiel looks him in the eye.  A gaze asking permission.  An offering of his self.

All Dean must do is accept.  It is a gift, he knows, that Cas freely gives.

He sinks into Castiel and he is found. His angel, his holiness, his humanity.

Castiel brings his hand over his shoulder, where his mark used to be and rocks onto Dean.  They each move with one another.  Together a single wave of sensual intent.

They exalt each other in gasps and sighs, moans and grunts.  Each swing of a pendulum, created to break.  Building momentum with each expression of grace and trust.

As one they fall and fly.  Dean is cleansed with a holy fire that brings him beyond the edges of his violent mortality.

A benediction upon his soul burns in his heart. Knows of loving.

 

In the aftermath, in the ashes, Dean rests encircled and enmeshed.  Existing in a little known peace.

Nothing can take away the things that he’s done. The cracks in his soul cannot be mended.  They live with him and he must live with their spectres.

Tomorrow may be worse than the last. Yet, he will not drown today. Dragged from the depths of his arrogant guilt.  Cleansed by the flames of mercy.

For now, in the embrace of tentative faith, his heart beats for the holy unknown.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Take Me to Church by Hozier
> 
> The verse that Castiel loosely quotes is Psalm 51.
> 
> I'm not totally sure when this is set, make of it what you will.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
